


Way Station in Shadow

by glacis



Category: X Files, due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser helps the wrong stray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Way Station in Shadow

Way Station in Shadow, a Due South / X Files crossover by Glacis. Rated NC17 for adult content. No infringement intended to either CC &amp; Co or Alliance. Set in Autumn 1995, after the events of Victoria's Secret and North on Due South and Paper Clip on X Files.

 

He really shouldn't have been surprised that the nightmares would come back. Not that he would classify them as such, even to himself. Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, didn't allow himself to be upset by such measly things as 'nightmares'.

Not in public, anyway.

He'd returned from his home in the Northwest Territories to the unfriendly environs of Chicago, reaffirming as much of his friendship with Ray Vecchio as he could, hoping he hadn't damaged it irreparably in the last few months. After all, how many friends, even best of friends, could stand nearly losing the family home, his job, his reputation, and eventually end up nearly killing said best friend on a train platform while that previously law abiding Constable was in the process of running full out to catch up with a known murderess and flee the city? Then take a bullet intended for that self same friend not two months later? Then cart that same poor excuse for a friend halfway around the Yukon while dealing with escaped felons, airplane crashes and physical injury? He honestly didn't know how Ray put up with him.

Not that that was an unusual feeling. He knew he was difficult, although God knows he didn't mean to be. Look at what he attracted! Treachery. Betrayal. Pain. It was much better that he be left on his own. Ray was trying very hard, and he never actually said anything, which was unusual in itself, the way the detective usually went on about things. But perhaps that, in itself, was telling.

Very much like Steve.

And very much like Victoria.

Fraser stared out the small window of his apartment into the crowded, noisy, perpetually busy Chicago night, and leant his forearm against the window. Gradually, his head fell forward until his eyes were buried against his arm.

Too bright. Even in the middle of the night, even without the candles that he had stowed away in the very back of his cabinets, even with the Coleman lantern turned off, even with his eyes closed, it was all simply too bright. He was living in darkness, had been since she left, had been even before that, when he had first learned that his love bought only pain. The light was all around him, burning his eyes, searing him, and none of it ever came inside.

A shuffling noise caught his ear, pulled it away from the darkness inside his head, and focussed his attention on the street below. Three o'clock in the morning was not a normal time for street traffic, not in this neighborhood, not if it wanted to remain breathing. There was too much desperation on the street that early in the morning, and no protection. He watched with vague interest, attention sharpening as he saw the shadows gather around the stranger. As the first hand was raised, he abandoned his post and ran for the stairwell.

He could always help. Others, anyway.

 

It had been a hell of a month, and it was getting worse rapidly. Alex Krycek had been running hard and fast for the last twenty six days, and he was nearing the end of his endurance. Desperation and adrenaline were a fugitive's friend, but even the most desperate fugitive needed the occasional rest. Dark holes to hide in had been few and far between.

He'd made decent time the first week, but then D.C. was his home stomping ground. He'd had bolt holes, and stashes, and had hit them all in the first three days after his erstwhile employer had tried to firebomb him into slag. An apartment in Pimmit Hills, a safe deposit box in Cheverly, a bus station locker in Glenarden. Then he'd hit the back roads and country trails, gradually losing himself in larger and larger cities, from Martinsburg to Canton to La Porte to Chicago. He knew that the Cartel had an international scope, but he also knew his own particular nemesis was endemic to the United States. The cancerstick wouldn't dare let the other members of the Cartel know he had failed. His best bet, until the furor died down and his money ran out, was to find an out of the way town somewhere in the wilds of northern Canada to hide and plan his next move.

Now, how the fuck to get into Canada.

Normally, it wouldn't be a problem. It wasn't like sneaking from Greece into Albania, for god's sake. Canada was friendly. Well, most of it was, and even the parts that weren't were polite about it. But cancerstick had eyes, and they were firmly planted along the border. If they caught sight of him on the way over, they'd hunt him down. And he didn't think his luck would hold a second time, if he was caught. No, he had to get into someplace relatively large, like Toronto or Ottawa, where he could lose himself. It still made him uneasy, and he would have preferred somewhere completely remote, like the Yukon, where he could see forever and stop them before they got anywhere near him. Even in Canada, in the big cities, there was a chance that cancerstick's enforcers could find him. But he wasn't much for camping out, especially in ice fields, so he'd have to take the cities and the dangers inherent in them.

The days on the run and the nights without rest betrayed him, and even his natural paranoia wasn't enough to give him warning in time to respond to the sneak attack. As gangs went, it was a pretty pathetic one, but they outnumbered him, and they got the drop on him. Two of them had his arms pinned behind him and a third had slugged him in the gut before he had time to so much as aim a kick at the leader's head. Fighting not to lose his dinner as the nausea rose up from the impact of the punch, he missed the next few minutes. Whatever whirlwind hit the little pack of muggers was fast and efficient, for he found himself freed, on his knees, gasping for breath as two bodies dropped and a third made limping tracks into the alley. Strong hands wrapped gently around his biceps and a soft, precise voice sounded in his ear.

"Are you all right?"

Canadian, from the sound of it. Canuck Street Avenger? Watching out for unsuspecting (or just preoccupied and stupid) mugging victims? Krycek managed to get his sense of humor under control at about the same time he got the cramps in his diaphragm to ease up, and he looked up at his rescuer.

Holy shit. He was wearing a Mountie hat.

He saw a shadow move behind the broad shoulder, and reacted instinctively, pulling his Avenger out of the way as a metal pipe crashed through the air right where the Stetson had just been. The Mountie rolled out of the way, shielding Krycek the entire time, and knocked the pipe away with his right hand, pushing Krycek flat, out of harm's way, with his left. The mugger took advantage of the split attention to drop his pipe and run for it. Sometime during all the fuss the other mugger had also dragged himself back into the shadows, and Krycek and the Avenger Mountie were alone, lying tangled together on the cold concrete, staring at one another, wide eyed. Kryeck opened his mouth to say ... something ... when his body realized it was finally in a horizontal position and gave up the fight to stay conscious. His last thought before passing out was to wonder what sort of glue the Avenger used to keep his hat in place. It hadn't shifted an inch in the entire fight.

Fraser looked at the unconscious body in his arms and immediately began checking for injuries. He couldn't find any obvious bumps or breaks, there was no blood flowing, and the only immediate signs of injury were the pallor evident even in the low light and the victim's labored breathing. Feeling the man's skull and neck carefully for evidence of trauma, he decided that exhaustion and shock had caused the faint. Hoisting the stranger carefully over his shoulder, he climbed back up the stairs to his apartment. As usual, none of the neighbors gave any indication that they were aware anything unusual had occurred. Of course, for this neighborhood, nothing truly unusual actually had.

The unconscious body was heavier than he'd expected, and he huffed a little sigh of accomplishment when he gently laid the man down on his bed. Diefenbaker sniffed questionably at the hand that hung limply over the side of the bed, licked experimentally at the forefinger, then returned to his blanket.

"I don't know who he is, Diefenbaker," Fraser defended himself, unaccountably perturbed by his wolf's obvious disapproval. "He was mugged, right in front of me. I couldn't just leave him there. Besides," he busied himself loosening the man's jacket and removing his boots, "you're just feeling territorial." He tucked the sock clad feet under the end of his blanket and moved up to straighten the dark head on his pillow. "Not that I can blame you." He glanced apologetically at the wolf. Dief hadn't liked Victoria either, and with good reason. She'd ended up shooting him. "But you can't close out the world for a few bad apples." Even when those apples taste like the Garden of Eden and you will never see the gates again, he thought sadly. The darkness swelled, and for a moment closed out everything around him.

Then he felt movement against his knee, and looked down to see that the stranger had wrapped his hand around his leg. The grip was strong, but the fingers trembled. Bending down to study the stranger's face, he saw emerald eyes staring up at him through thick lashes. The eyes were nearly glazed over with exhaustion, but he could clearly see the apprehension in them. Unthinkingly, his hand covered the hand gripping his leg, and he smiled as reassuringly as he could.

"It's all right. You're safe. No one will hurt you." He put as much warmth and certainty into his voice as possible, and it seemed to work. The apprehension faded, replaced by the dull fog of fatigue, and the lashes fell to cover the impossible green of the irises. The grip on his knee faded, and he stepped away, turning to place his bedroll on the floor alongside his bed. Something inside urged him to stay close to his unexpected guest.

As he slowly relaxed into the darkness, Victoria's face flashed before his eyes. His brows drew together, then the image was replaced by the visage of the man he'd saved that night. Before he could decode the message his subconscious was sending him, he finally drifted off to sleep.

 

The landscape cleared slowly, and when he finally realized where he was, he shivered. The autumn of his seventeenth year, asserting a little independence. What a dismal failure it had been. He and Steve along the shores of Wapawekka Lake, down south from home in Saskatchewan. Doing some fishing, doing some hiking ... discovering loving.

He didn't know it was wrong. Still didn't think so.

But that hadn't stopped them.

Steve was older than he was by a whole two years, broad shouldered, black haired, with the tawny skin and sparkling deep eyes of his Inuit ancestry standing clear against the snowy background. He had a bright, easy laugh, and he used it often. He didn't talk much, but then, neither had Benton. Actions always spoke so much louder. Looking after one another, partnered in every way that mattered. Practically able to read one another's minds.

Lodged in one another's hearts.

Of course, the hunters hadn't seen it like that. They'd just seen an Indian and a white boy doing perverted things in the woods. Through binoculars, far enough away that neither young man had been given any warning before they were taken.

A collage of images tormented Fraser's dream state. Steve, laughing, face lit by firelight; that same beloved face, contorted by screams of pain as he was beaten senseless by a ring of animals, he couldn't call them men; the rope burning into his wrists and his ankles, staking him to the ground, knowing he would be next, screaming at them to stop, until his throat spasmed and his cries dried up; wide, impossibly wide India ink eyes staring at him, beyond question, beyond fear, as they took turns at his body like the pack animals they were; the blood soaking his ropes as he tore the skin from his wrists, finally breaking free. Working his ankles free, reaching for the gun, the trigger under his finger, the fall of the bodies, the frenzy of fear, he could smell it off the survivors as they ran.

Too late.

Too little, and much too late.

He'd attended to Steve. Properly, as properly as he could. Sang the song and chanted the goodbye, then he'd gone home.

Alone.

He'd left the naked bodies of the animals who had made him so on the icy ground.

The scavengers were at work before he left the shelter of the trees behind. Illusory shelter. No justice. There could be no recompense for what he had lost.

Autumn was a time of loss. And winter settled in his soul.

 

Krycek woke to the muffled sounds of whimpers coming from somewhere off to his left. He stilled instinctively, listening intently to determine if he was in immediate danger. He heard the click of nails across a bare floor, then sloppy noises. The whimpers quieted, and turned to almost silent sobs. Deciding that whatever, or whoever, was making the noise was too caught up in misery to be much of a threat, he risked opening his eyes.

The room was bare, and chilly from a breeze coming through the blocked open window. Who the hell was nuts enough to leave a window open in this rotten part of Chicago, not to mention the fact that it was fucking cold? Shifting enough to give the place a once-over, he wasn't impressed. It was a bare little tenement apartment, ancient fridge in one corner, even more ancient steamer trunk in another, not much else but the bed he was lying in.

And the man wrapped in some sort of blanket on the floor. Who was apparently having a nightmare, and was getting a tongue bath all over his face from what looked one hell of a lot like a wolf.

Okay, so he'd tripped in the alley and landed in the Twilight Zone. Stranger things had happened. Shaking off the memory of some of those strange things, he concentrated on the guy lying on the floor. As he watched the pale features twitch under the influence of the nightmare, images from earlier that night gelled. So, this man was a Mountie. Who'd saved him from getting the snot kicked out of him, brought him home and put him to bed.

He could deal with that. He could even use it. Somehow.

Staring idly at the wolf's tongue as it lapped at the tears being squeezed out from behind dense lashes, he was struck with the classical beauty of the Mountie's face. The guy could be used for a recruiting poster. Square jawed, fine boned, he even had pretty ears. Probably straight as a die and square, indeed. Settling his head on one hand, leaning into his bent elbow, he leaned over a little closer to study his rescuer. The wolf looked up at him, whined once, and went back to licking. Almost as if the animal was asking him to do something. Shaking off the fanciful thought, he was surprised to hear the Mountie moan a word. No, not a word. A name.

Steve.

Then some other words.

As he listened intently, Krycek began to re-evaluate some of his earlier assumptions. Maybe not quite as straight as he'd thought.

Then the words turned ugly. Anguished, as the man's throat tightened, and he fought in his sleep. Sad, then wounded, and helpless. Then what sounded like a mumbled chant under his breath, as the tears flowed faster than the wolf could lap.

Okay. Homosexual, or at least queer enough to dream about it. In a lot of pain. Pretty lonely, if the dump was anything to go by. Used to jumping in and rescuing orphans from the storm, risking himself for strangers, and probably not used to getting anything back for it, if Krycek knew his average big city citizen. And he was Canadian.

Krycek leaned back against the pillow, letting his arm relax and staring up at the ceiling. A lonely, needy, gay do-gooder Canuck. Ripe for the picking. He could definitely use this.

 

The next three days passed in a blur of care-taking and consular duties. For some reason that he couldn't quite explain to himself but that was an amalgam of Ray being caught up with his family, the Inspector being determined to turn him into a statue on the front steps of the Embassy, and the shy, frightened demeanor of his house guest, Fraser found himself keeping Alex's presence a secret. It wasn't so much that he didn't tell anyone, as the fact that no one was particularly interested.

Staring off into the distance, maintaining textbook perfect posture and composure while standing sentry, Fraser couldn't help but examine why that particular thought made his chest ache.

 

The first afternoon alone, after faking sleep long enough to get the Mountie out of the apartment, Alex had made a thorough search of the place. It hadn't taken long.

Keeping care to not disarrange anything, he'd found the old diaries, apparently from the Mountie's dad, and the deed to a cabin clear up north in the Yukon. Now, that was interesting. He'd been looking for a bolt hole just like that, and now it had fallen into his hands.

Now to get the Mountie to give him the keys.

 

Fraser's guest hadn't been particularly forthcoming about himself. He'd introduced himself, hesitantly, as Alex Neekto, a Ukrainian immigrant who'd fallen on hard times. Through patient cross examination, Fraser had determined that Mr. Neekto, or Alex, as the young man requested he be called, was in the United States illegally. He was a political refugee who was attempting to start over again in a new land, but was not having a great deal of luck. His mind flashed back to their conversation from the previous evening.

Alex had eaten ravenously, once convinced that he was welcome to the food. Obviously, it had been some time since the young man had been regularly fed. In between bites, eating with impeccable manners, he had offered tidbits of information about himself. Fraser had found himself mesmerized by the combination of creamy skin and dark curling hair, bright eyes and full lower lip. In an unusual lapse of concentration, he'd had to force himself to stop watching that moist mouth move and actually listen to the words falling from it.

"I have a cousin. Anton Astrov, he's a doctor." One strong hand waved vaguely northward. "Up in the snow." His voice bore a vague accent, hard to place but definitely Slavic.

Fraser blinked, chewed automatically, and asked into the lengthening silence, "The snow?"

Eyes the color of old leaves in late autumn stared up at him before thick lashes covered them. "Where he is, there is snow all the time. It is very far north." Alex placed his fork carefully on his scraped-clean plate, and sighed softly. "I would like to go there. One day. I have not seen Anton since ... for a very long time."

Those fascinating eyes took on a faraway look, and Fraser wondered what memories could bring such sadness to them. Before he could ask, Alex made an obvious effort to regain his composure, and politely gathered the dishes up.

As they were standing side by side, doing what little washing there was, Fraser ventured another question. "Might you tell me, just how far north is 'very far north'?"

Alex made that vague waving motion with his hand again, and smiled. "Up past the towns, where there is only mountain and ice. The Yukons." Fraser started to make the instinctive correction, but held it back as Alex continued to speak. "I could not stay with him, he is a, how is it put? A helicopter doctor, and he lives with friends when he is in a town. But if I could find a place to live up there, for a little while at least, I could find a way to ... make a place for myself. Then I would be with family again." The hand holding the dish towel gradually slowed, then stilled on the plate it was polishing. "It has been a long time since I have been with family. I miss them. And I love the snow. It ... it is like home." Then he turned, stacked the last of the dishes in the cabinet, and wandered off to stand at the window, staring off into the darkness.

Fraser stared at the lonely figure looking into the night, touched by so many similarities to his own loneliness, and began to work out some way to help.

Wanting to learn more about his visitor, Fraser ventured to change the subject. "If I may ask, Alex, why did you leave the Ukraine? Obviously, you have a deep love of your homeland, and you miss your family." His tone made it clear that he was not meaning to pry, and Alex took no offense.

Turning from the window, he hooked his hands into his back pockets. Fraser tore his eyes from the strong thighs and solidly packed zipper so fetchingly displayed. Recent nightmares were dredging up old memories, and recent betrayals were bringing back old longings. It was not proper to subject Alex to the physical ramifications of those desires--

"I am ... homosexual, Benton. In my country, that is a serious social crime. Men who are ... who engage in such ... relationships, they can be put in prison, or locked in mental hospitals. They are not so ... rigid in this country. I do not want to be punished for the crime of loving a man."

Fraser's mind went completely blank. So did his face, and Alex misinterpreted his sudden lack of expression. Dismay and fear clouded those fine eyes, and his hands came up in a defensive gesture.

"I am sorry! I did not mean to offend. I thought ... you seem so kind .. I did not--"

Fraser interrupted the stumbling apology with his own raised palm. "Alex! Alex, please, it's perfectly all right. I apologize. You didn't offend me, I assure you."

Relief painted itself across the expressive face, and Alex relaxed. "Spazeba. Thank you. It is good." A tiny grin flashed across his face. "One does not get without one asks, yes?"

Fraser fell into the spark of light in deep green eyes, and had to concede the truth of that statement. Unfortunately, while his body was happily agreeing with the concept, his mind was still struggling with recent wounds, and he couldn't force his mouth to form the words. Alex gradually lost his smile as he realized that Fraser was, literally, speechless, and with an embarrassed little cough, he went down the hall to make his evening ablutions. By the time he had returned, Fraser was bunked down in his own bedroll. They exchanged subdued 'good night's, then lay in the darkness, listening to one another breathe.

Remembering the particularly vivid dreams that had followed made his uniform uncomfortably constricting, and Fraser exercised iron control to banish the thoughts from his mind. Beneath the stoic demeanor, the darkness was reaching out to the warmth he felt coming from his new friend, and a small voice at the back of his mind whispered 'tonight.'

It was an incredibly long shift.

 

Alex stared at the candles he'd lit, ringing the counter, the small windowsill, lighting the pathetic little rooms with the best imitation of romance he could create. It'd have to do. He'd planted all the seeds he could, and time was running short. By tomorrow he had to be on his way. He'd read enough in the journals to get a good idea of the lay of the land -- old Robert Fraser had been pretty damned thorough both in describing the country he tracked outlaws through and in rhapsodizing about his cabin. Krycek had imprinted the information in his brain.

Even if he didn't get any help crossing the border, when he did manage to sneak into Canada, he now knew where he was going to hole up. He had packed a bag with everything he would need. Now he just had to distract the Mountie for a few hours, keep him occupied. In the morning he would be gone. If he stayed any longer, the cancerstick's eyes would find him. Then they'd both be dead. And he planned on living a hell of a lot longer than this.

 

Night fell early as autumn slipped into winter. Ray had been delayed, other commitments taking his time, so Fraser walked briskly home through the gradually quieting streets. By the time he'd made it to his block, dusk had given way to full darkness. He glanced automatically up at his window from the sidewalk before entering the building. There was a light glow illuminating the glass, bleeding through the cracked window into the night. It cheered him, leaving him feeling, for an odd moment, as if he wasn't alone. He refused to examine the feeling, simply enjoying the unusual sensation while it lasted.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

The glow wasn't emanating from his lantern, as he had expected. No, Alex had been busy while he'd been away. The candles he had so diligently stored, deep in the cabinet, after his fiasco of an affair with Victoria, had found their way back out. They sat scattered about the room, creating a dichotomy, pools of light that filled him with shadows, shadows that gnawed at him. An unaccustomed rage, sparked by buried anger and unacceptable pain, jolted through him, and without thought, he swept his arm viciously along the counter, knocking the candles to the tile floor.

Alex gave one startled "Shto?" then started stamping on the flickering wicks, stopping the flame before it could spread. Fraser stared, appalled at his lack of control, then began to back toward the door. Before he could make it, not thinking, just reacting with the instinct to flee foremost in his mind, Alex stamped out the last of the sputtering candles and reached out to grasp Fraser's wrist.

"Fchyom dyela? What's the matter? Are you alright?" His grip remained steady, and Fraser froze, unwilling to risk injuring his new friend by taking the steps necessary to free himself. The worried look on the open features gradually calmed him, and he began to relax.

"I'm ... I am sorry, Alex. Please. It's my fault, I shouldn't have reacted so violently," he tried to explain, but found that his tongue felt thick, and the words didn't come out correctly.

"Nyet, nyet, I did something wrong. The candles? I am sorry." Releasing Fraser tentatively, as if he expected him to bolt, he quickly made the rounds of the room extinguishing the remaining candles. With only the light coming through the window to illuminate the room, the shadows returned to their proper places, and Fraser finally eased himself back into the room.

Alex sank down next to him, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "I truly am sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen."

Unwilling to meet those wide, searching eyes quite yet, Fraser stared down at his own linked hands, clenching around one another between his knees. "What did you mean to happen, Alex?"

"I meant ... to see if there was a chance for us to be close. I did not mean to hurt you, Benton. I meant to offer companionship."

The soft voice reassured him, eased some of the trauma associated with the last time he had been in a candlelit room. "It's not ... there was a woman. Very recently. She ... hurt me. I allowed her to hurt me. The candles ... brought it back." The words hurt his throat, the confession coming from deep within in response to the honesty his friend had shown. He meant to reassure, but it had the opposite effect.

Alex straightened away from him, removing his hand, putting distance between them. "I see." The slightly accented voice was strained. "I misunderstood. It is my fault. You do not want. I misread."

This time it was Fraser's turn to reach out and grasp Alex's hand, holding him still when he would have retreated. "No," he admitted with further painful honesty. "You didn't misread. You're ... a very attractive man. In some ways, you remind me of her." Alex stiffened, looking at him with horrified disbelief. "Not in the bad way," Fraser continued hurriedly, certain that, as usual, his explanation would not be sufficient. "In a good way. She was beautiful. And she could be ... breathtaking." He grimaced. He was simply useless at talking about emotions. Unable to think of the words that would explain his attraction without making Alex feel even worse, he did something he very seldom did, and gave into impulse. Leaning sideways, twisting his torso just enough to bring them into contact along one side, retaining his grip on Alex's arm, he angled his head and brought their faces together.

For a first kiss, it was surprisingly intense. Alex's mouth softened immediately, opening slightly, responding to the gentle buss with a delicate foray of his own. Their tongues slid along one another, then Alex's followed Fraser's back into its home, probing deeply, not giving Fraser the chance to back away. Somehow, as the kiss deepened, their bodies shifted, Fraser's hand sliding up to cup Alex's shoulder, Alex moving backward, pulling Fraser along with him until they came to a rest against the bed, Fraser blanketing Alex with his body. By the time Alex finally allowed him to breathe, Fraser was lightheaded.

The candles were forgotten, the memory of Victoria's touch burned away by the strong hands restlessly exploring him. He found himself panting, pulling at Alex's clothing as Alex pulled at his uniform, until those hands planted themselves against his chest. A moan rumbled in his throat at the denial of physical sensation, and a reassuring murmur sounded by his ear.

"No, no, tovarisch, we're not stopping. But the clothes are in the way, yes? I want to feel your skin against mine. All that fire." As he spoke, Alex sat up and reached out to him again, busy fingers making short work of the many fastenings on the uniform. Fraser could feel those eyes burning into him with an almost feral intensity, devouring every inch of him as the bulky material was stripped away. With an ease that would be astonishing in retrospect but seemed perfectly natural at the time, Alex stripped him and placed the uniform neatly on his single chair, then stripped himself, with less dispatch and more attention to detail. By the time Alex finished, after checking regularly throughout his disrobing to ensure he had the other man's attention, Fraser was in a state of extreme arousal.

The state was matched by his soon to be lover. Half expecting a hard, fast coupling, Fraser was completely disarmed by the thorough attention Alex paid to his body. Starved for touch, lost in the overwhelming sensation of those hands, that mouth, worshipping him, Fraser gradually felt the loneliness that was so much a part of him begin to ease. Alex lingered over him, stroking his calves, up around his thighs, easing around to palm his buttocks, avoiding true intimacy at the beginning, heightening the anticipation.

Strong, kneading fingers dug into the long muscles of his back, smoothing over the knots that were then worked into oblivion. Fraser felt an unnerving combination of utter relaxation and total arousal by the time Alex had finished his unorthodox massage, the kneading and stroking interspersed with butterfly kisses, delicate licks, tiny nibbles until every centimeter of his skin was completely sensitized. Those hands wrung every iota of tension out of his back, shoulders, neck, up into his scalp, as Alex used his lips, teeth and tongue from Fraser's navel along his ribs to his nipples. He lapped, nipped and tugged until they were peaked before continuing his journey. Fraser found himself paralyzed with sensation, unable to do anything but lay there and be feasted upon. Then Alex attacked his neck, gently suckling and biting, and he began to moan in response, unable to keep from vocalizing his approval.

He was melting into the bed, he could barely keep his eyes open, and he was so hard he was aching. When the talented hands and even more talented mouth left his scalp and his throat, diving with unnerving suddenness directly onto his erection, he yelped and bucked. The change in tactics brought a whole new level of arousal with it, and his previous passivity disappeared. His hands threaded themselves through the thick pelt of dark brown hair, guiding Alex's head, encouraging his efforts. His hips thrust of their own volition, not deeply enough to choke, but demanding fulfillment that Alex was more than willing to provide.

As he felt himself draw nearer to the peak, his left hand wove through Alex's right, and he pulled the caressing fingers away from his testes, drawing them up to his mouth. Alex paused in his swallowing massage long enough to look askance at Fraser, but he ignored the inquiring look and began to suck on the fingertips. Alex moaned around his erection, and the vibration nearly caused him to explode. He sucked fiercely at the fingers, and Alex matched his rhythm perfectly. The combination of flesh in his mouth and mouth on his flesh completed the circuit, and his mind shut down, buried in a torrent of sensation, color, sound, and release that rendered him nearly unconscious.

He wasn't truly aware of Alex's actions at that point; feeling the world shift on its axis, he assumed it was further evidence of impaired sensory input caused by an incredible orgasm. He lost the hand from his mouth, and the solid presence of Alex between his thighs, but the loss was compensated by the warmth lying along his back and thighs, shifting to his side, bending his upper leg, the weight along his back pressing him slightly into the thin mattress. He felt moist warmth at his backside, strong fingers spreading his buttocks, then wet fingers probing at him.

Still recovering from the shattering climax moments before, his body was completely relaxed, and the fingers entered him with little resistance. Reacting to the unusual stimulus, he groaned and thrust backward slightly, needing more. His unspoken demand was met by the careful working of a bulkier intruder into his opening, and reality shifted again. There was no coarse cotton pillowcase beneath his cheek; the thin woolen blanket rubbing against his skin was transformed to the softest weaving, the bedroll a buttress beneath it to shield them from the icy ground. The muttered endearments whispered between his shoulder blades were Inuit, not Russian; the slight breeze from the opened window was the crisp play of wind off the lake. The bulk stretching, filling, completing him was not Alex. The darkness was drowned in pure sensation.

The lovemaking went on for what felt like forever, but was not nearly long enough, then was repeated with some variation and a great deal of need throughout the night. As Fraser convulsed a final time, drawing his lover into the abyss with him, clenching around his welcomed invader, words tumbled from both men's lips. Neither heard the other, perhaps for the best, for Alex was not to know who 'Steve' might be, and Fraser certainly did not know what 'Mulder' meant.

 

Krycek pretended to sleep until the door had closed softly behind the Mountie. It had been a hell of a night, and he stored up the memories, reveling in the sensation, knowing it would be quite awhile before he got an opportunity like that again. Giving his benefactor five minutes to get to the front of the building, he rose and headed to the window. He watched the taillights of a classic green Riviera disappear from view, then headed to the sink for a quick wash. He'd do a more thorough job when he was far enough away to take his time. Besides, there was something ... satisfying about feeling Benton's sweat on his skin, the feeling of his come still washing inside him. A good job well done. Smirking slightly to himself, he headed for the closet.

Fifteen minutes later he stood fully dressed in Benton's spare uniform. The close attention the previous night, before things got totally hot, had paid off, and he had no problem with what seemed like dozens of fastenings. He placed the hat squarely on his head, rummaged quickly and neatly through the trunk, removed the .38, the passport, and the spare ammunition from it, and was on his way.

It had been sweet, and it had been useful. He felt rested, rejuvenated, and ready to run. Damned good thing, too, because the race had really just begun.

The border wasn't even a challenge. He was of the same height and build as Benton, and his coloring and face were similar enough that he easily passed the cursory inspection. A uniform was a wonderful thing. The boat took him across Lake Michigan, the bus took him as far as Sault Ste. Marie, and by week's end he was heading north from Thompson. As long as the money and the supplies held out, he was safe. Within a fortnight, checking his six the entire trip, he had made himself at home in the small cabin. As he relaxed in front of the fire, he raised a cup in the general direction of Chicago.

"Thanks for the bolt-hole, Benton." It'd been fun. Too bad it'd had to be so short.

 

Some minor infraction had incensed the Inspector, and she made him pay for it in the usual way. Eleven hours of sentry duty in blowing snow wasn't really standard procedure, but at least it wasn't the middle of a heat wave. Fraser blanked his mind as completely as he could, but the memories of the previous night kept intruding. Eventually, he allowed some of them to seep through. They did have a curiously warming effect.

Eventually, even Inspector Thatcher had to relent, and by nineteen hundred he was ready to leave. Unfortunately for his wayward libido, Ray had finally disentangled himself from family obligations, and was eager to make up some lost time by taking him out to dinner. It was less successful than their dinners usually were, but Fraser found himself loath to share Alex with Ray. For one thing, the relationship was still very new, and he felt unusually protective. For another, he wasn't quite sure how his macho, Italian, Roman Catholic detective friend would react to meeting another of Fraser's lovers, this one being a man.

At least he wasn't a convicted felon.

After a relatively short dinner, pleading unfeigned fatigue from an all day sentry shift (following nearly no sleep the night before), Fraser hopped out of the Riviera and headed up the steps to his apartment. He was happy to see that Alex hadn't repeated the candle arrangement from the previous evening. Dief bounded up the stairs next to him, and directly into the room. As usual, the door wasn't latched. Unable to contain his anticipatory smile, Fraser called out a greeting as he entered the small front room.

It echoed.

The smile faded slightly, replaced by a concerned frown. Diefenbaker whined at him from the bed, and he moved, slowly, further into the apartment, removing his Stetson and placing it carefully on the table as he went. He felt as if he were walking underwater, his footsteps reluctant, his body tensing. With each step, the darkness in his head grew stronger. The short hair at the nape of his neck was prickling.

The bed had not been made. He could still see, and smell, the results of their passion on the sheets. In the indentation from Alex's head on the pillow, a sheet of plain paper lay, looking incongruously tidy in the mess of the linens. There were very few words on it.

"Benton. Thank you. You saved my life. Alex"

He looked blankly around the room. Nothing appeared to be disturbed, except the bed. Where had he gone? Why had he gone? It made no sense. Moving numbly through his evening routine, he unhooked his tunic and walked to the closet. Opening the door, he reached in for his customary hanger and froze.

His other uniform was missing.

He hung up the tunic, absently, and looked around the apartment again, this time with much greater attention. Something was out of place, something was ... not quite right. It clicked on the third sweep, and he headed directly for his father's trunk, pulled a quarter inch forward from where it was normally placed. It was also somewhat shinier than it had been, and he swallowed dryly, realizing that it had been wiped down.

It seemed Alex hadn't wanted his fingerprints to remain behind, either.

Opening the lid with restrained violence, he scanned the contents. What he saw, or more aptly what he didn't see, caused his heart to sink. His weapon, ammunition, and passport were missing. Sinking to his knees in front of the trunk, his mind raced, calculating lead time and distance.

He could be anywhere by now.

His first impulse was to inform Ray. Bring in the police. Track him down. Get his help stopping Alex from whatever it was Alex was planning to do. Halfway out the door toward Mr. Mustafi's to borrow the telephone, he stopped. It hit him like a physical blow, taking his breath, making his head hurt.

He couldn't do that. Ray was only now recovering from Victoria. Now, here he would be, with another invisible lover, stealing his clothing, his pistol, for purposes unknown. And this time the lover was a man.

Fraser tried to take a deep breath, but his chest was too tight, only allowing shallow pants. The darkness was threatening to drown him, this time, and he was more than willing to let it. He couldn't drag Ray into this. He would have to investigate it on his own. Not again would he allow the only friend he had left to suffer for his own stupidity.

Sinking back onto the floor, staring blankly out the window, he wondered, not for the first time, if the dawn would ever come.

 

Three months later:

Strapping on snowshoes, fingering the edge of a computer disk through the layers of insulation protecting him from the elements, Krycek looked back over his shoulder at the little cabin that had sheltered him through a fierce winter. The storms had lightened now, and it was time to go. Somewhere warm. Somewhere metropolitan, commercial, where his skills and his information would find a market. It was time to leave his hiding place and re-enter the rat race.

He stopped once on his journey, at Saskatoon, and posted a package to Benton Fraser. Then he continued along the length of the country until he reached Vancouver. There, with a carefully forged Canadian passport, expensive and worth every penny, he boarded an international flight for Hong Kong.

It was time, again, to start playing the game.

 

The winter was as frustrating as the autumn had been cold. Every spare minute not spent on duty was spent at the computers, until Ray Vecchio finally asked him what he, Ray, had done to piss him, Frazier, off. That had broken his self-imposed silence, and he'd told Ray just enough to interest the detective in the search. Not all the details, by any means, just that he had helped a man in need who had repaid that assistance by stealing some items of value from him, and now he was trying to track the man down, and having little success in the endeavor. Ray had looked at him, quietly, searchingly, as if he knew that there was more to the story that Fraser wasn't telling him. Then he had shrugged, accepted what he was given, and offered his help.

Both of them came up empty handed. Leads disappeared before they could develop, or turned out to be false trails. They hit one top level classified barrier after another. It was intensely frustrating.

Shortly after the new year, a package wrapped in brown paper arrived at the embassy for Fraser. Carefully examining it, he found no indication of its origination point. Then it hit him.

He knew the writing.

Alex.

Sinking into the chair, he pulled the package toward himself and began to open it slowly. Carefully wrapped, padded for protection, was his .38 revolver, lying atop his passport. Inside the passport was a key, and tied to the key was a tiny paper with a number and location on it. A locker at a bus station in Saskatoon. Nothing else.

He closed his eyes, the edges of the key digging into his palm as his fist clenched around it. Somehow he knew that his spare uniform would be in that locker. Probably any ammunition that was left as well. The unshakable feeling that he had been an idiot struck him. Of course. If Alex had been thorough enough to find his passport, he'd certainly had time to read at least some of the journals, and would definitely know about the cabin. The clues had been right under his nose for months, and in his blindness he had missed them.

With equal certainty, he knew that Alex was no longer at the cabin. No longer in Canada. No longer anywhere that Fraser could reach him. Placing the key with shaking hands into his pocket, he straightened, tugged at his tunic, and knocked quietly on the Inspector's door. He would take a short trip to Saskatoon and retrieve his belongings. And when he returned, he would take Ray out to dinner, and try his best to explain the darkness.

Perhaps, for once, he would make the right choice. Light to balance the darkness. If fate was kind.

Fate was seldom kind.

_finis_

 


End file.
